Something Beautiful
by otherhawk
Summary: Set after O13. Study of an unhealthy relationship.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is AU of 'And Away'...you probably need to read this first. And yes, it's a darker alternative. Just crept into my head and required writing down.**

**A/N2: Title is taken from Fight Club. So I can't talk about it.  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't own O11  
**

* * *

The first time is his fault, it really is. Oh, she doesn't kid herself; that doesn't excuse her. For some things there are no excuses.

But he comes home and says they need to talk, and he stands in front of her and tells her he slept with someone else, and he tells her that he's sorry, and the fury sweeps out of her like a tidal wave. He's still talking when her hand flies back, and afterwards he's still standing, his eyes fixed on hers, still sorry and not-sorry-enough, and it's the surprise that hurts her, the surprise and the betrayal, and it doesn't feel like he has the _right_…

Then he's on the floor and she feels so sick.

Her hand is aching.

She is horrified, and not by him.

"I have to go," she says, and she grabs her coat and it's not until she's a block away that she realises she didn't say that she was sorry too.

This isn't meant to happen. This isn't who she is. She gave up everything for him, and she knows he loves her as she loves him. She doesn't know what to do, where to go, who to call. For a while she walks the streets and her heart is bruised, her knuckles bloody.

In the end she goes back. Where else is there to go?

He hasn't moved, although it's dark now. There's a bottle by his hand. He looks up and he looks uncertain, like she's never known him. "I'm sorry," he whispers, before she can say anything. "I never meant to hurt you."

The darkness almost hides the bruises. It doesn't hide her guilt. "_I'm _sorry," she says and her voice is choked. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry."

She falls to her knees and holds him tight and wonders what they do now?

They talk, they drink and they forgive. They promise this will never happen again.

* * *

The second time is still his fault. No. Really. He can be so selfish sometimes. So childish, so obsessive. She's not excusing herself, she understands her sin, but after a night spent pacing in front of a phone that doesn't ring, when annoyance has turned to anger, has turned to worry, has turned to fear, is it any surprise that relief can turn to anger again?

Apologies fall from his mouth right along with the blood.

This time there is no surprise in his eyes. She's standing on a line she truly doesn't wish to cross and she's not even sure he knows or understands.

He is selfish. He says as much himself. This is his fault as well as hers and there will not be a next time. She is determined.

* * *

The morning after, he smiles and laughs and takes her to breakfast and it's like all the problems just melt away. There's love in his eyes, not fear. He's not afraid of her. There's nothing wrong, as long as he's not afraid.

Debbie disagrees. Bright and brash and beautiful Debbie, the girl he took home from Vegas, looks up at him with horror. "What happened?" she says, as they walk into the Standard. Debbie looks at him as though he's something rare and precious, something fragile, something that can be so easily broken.

It sets her teeth on edge. (_She wishes he wouldn't talk to Debbie. She wishes he wouldn't talk to _anyone._) _The anger starts to rise.

He laughs and lies with ease. "Walked into a door at Walmart," he says, and it's like he's done this a thousand times before.

The anger dies. She takes his hand and wishes she hadn't hurt him.

* * *

The third time he left a wet towel on the bedroom floor again. It is a petty domestic argument that she turns into domestic abuse. She can't lie and call it something else - she thinks she cracked a rib, but he won't let her see. He hides the pain and turns away from her.

That makes her angry too.

Later, she locks herself in the bathroom and cries, watching the blood drip from her hand. It forms a pool on the tile – so much more mess than the stupid towel. (_Why couldn't he just pick it up?)_

She sleeps with her ear against the bathroom door, longing to hear him make the call.

He doesn't. So maybe that's all his fault, right?

* * *

He is too controlled, she decides. Too self-contained. They rub along together and the friction slides off him and has nowhere to go, until she can't stand it anymore and explodes in fits of anger, righteous and unholy.

It isn't all the time. It isn't every day. It isn't even every week, and if that doesn't make it okay, at least it means she doesn't grow used to the feeling. She is sorry. She is always sorry. And she always tells him that this was the last time, that she will never do it again, and he always smiles and says he believes her.

In time just those words will anger her.

He buys more long sleeve shirts, and hides his eyes behind dark glass.

Some days she thinks maybe he just doesn't mind so much.

* * *

They live in his house, in his city, in his country. He brought her here. He came back into her life and turned everything upside down and then offered her his world. All he has to do is say the word and she will leave.

And he should. She tells him that, while she holds the icepack to his eye. His hand is gripping hers tightly.

"Make me leave," she whispers. Pleads.

For once his eyes are serious. "But I want you to stay," he says, and she thinks that maybe if he had a little less pride, a little less control, he might just say he wanted her to stay and not hurt him anymore.

She wishes she wouldn't hurt him anymore.

If wishes were horses they could ride off into the sunset together.

What else is there to say? She came here because he asked her to and she stays because he wants her to, and in her heart of hearts she knows that all of this is deeply wrong.

He doesn't love easily. Neither does she. And there are times – so many, many times – when their love is enough to set the world on fire, when they are together and nothing can touch them, when life and love and laughter chase the other times into mere memory. If she was on the outside she knows she would say that doesn't make it worth it. And yet, when the stars shine down, just for them, it feels like this is their world and no one else will ever understand.

Maybe he really just doesn't mind so much.

Besides. She will never do it again. She really means it this time.

* * *

It would be easier if he broke his promise like she broke hers. Then all of this would have some sort of rhyme, some sort of reason. She checks his phone and his email time and again, follows him without him ever knowing and she never sees any sign that he's sleeping around.

But he flirts as easily as breathing and he has an unselfconscious beauty that draws too many eyes. Sometimes she watches him walk into a room and she knows that half the people there want to tear his clothes off and throw him down onto the nearest bed, just like she does.

It's natural to feel jealous. She has a right to feel jealous. Just because he can keep it in his pants doesn't mean he's not in the wrong.

He comes home from a job and she's waiting for him. It's been five weeks. She's been alone. Too much time to think, too much time to imagine. She catches him smiling that smile which means he isn't thinking of her.

She gives the jealousy free reign. "Did you let Ocean fuck you?" she demands.

The smile fades. He drops his suitcase to the floor with a dull thud. "Can we not do this?" he asks and he sounds so tired. "I was having a really good day."

The words are damning to her ears. A full confession. She imagines him beneath his friend, hot flesh on flesh, lips parted, legs spread wide, soft words of love and urgency. Always and forever. In her mind he is smiling, and there are no bruises, there is no pain.

Later and he is lying on the floor. He hasn't even had a chance to unpack. The guilt is choking her.

He stirs. "I've never had sex with Danny," he says quietly and he still sounds tired.

"I know," she says. "I'm sorry."

He closes his eyes, and for a moment she thinks that maybe, this time, he isn't going to accept the apology. But then he nods and she kisses him and holds him close.

They make love like they can make love matter.

* * *

She loses count somewhere along the way. She long ago passed the point where she can say it's his fault. (_And yet._) He doesn't fight back. He doesn't throw her out of his life. He doesn't even talk about it, when it's over.

Somewhere, somehow, he made a trade-off in his head. Accepted what was happening as just part of his life now. The price he pays for being with her. Deep inside, she knows this isn't the first time.

The only time he raises his hand and stops her, is the night before his friends are coming to town. "No," he says, his chin raised, and she looks at him, astonished. "Keep it off the face," he tells her. "Keep it where I can hide it."

That is the moment she realises she's damned.

* * *

Sometimes she dreams that all of this is simply over, that she says _no more_ and keeps her word and the happy-ever-after comes at last.

Sometimes she dreams she opens a door and Danny is waiting for her with dark and angry eyes, ready to make her answer for her crime.

In the meantime she sleeps beside him and dreams. Sometimes she just feels like destroying something beautiful.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hadn't originally planned on writing another chapter to this, but then I'd never planned on writing it in the first place. There may at some point be a third part, we shall see.**

**A/N2: Thanks to InSilva for reading it through and offering help and advice. And being patient. Who knew she could do that?**

* * *

The first time it is his fault and he knows it. Maybe that's the problem. It's difficult to convince yourself you're blameless when you already know you're in the wrong. He comes home to her, and he confesses his sin, and he is expecting her anger – really, he is expecting her to leave him.

He is not expecting the punch.

Even if he wanted to, he does not have the chance to dodge or defend himself. There's just the blossoming pain, and the shock and bewilderment. He stares at her. She looks as surprised as he is.

Maybe things could have been different then. Maybe if he could have just found the right words he could have turned it all around. But he just stands and watches her and waits and the anger in her eyes only grows brighter.

The second punch is harder than the first. She sends him to the ground and stands above him and she still looks surprised at what she's done. Surprised and sickened and horrified, and it isn't a shock when she grabs her coat and walks out.

"I have to go," she says. He wonders if she's coming back. He wonders if he wants her to.

He doesn't know what is supposed to happen next.

He doesn't get up, but he reaches up blindly and finds a bottle sitting on the counter. It is some of the good stuff. A present. They were saving it for a special occasion. He supposes this might just qualify.

It gets dark as he drinks. His cheek throbs and his eye is swollen shut. He thinks, maybe, he should stand up and leave before she gets back. His fingers trace over the heat in his face. It is too easy to imagine the look in Danny's eyes. Too easy to imagine the anger and the horror, and Danny would want him to leave right now.

The trouble is, he has left before. It is his usual way of operating, after all. Leave when things get difficult. He sighs. This time he will stay and see it through. The pain is sharp and fresh and massive, but it reminds him of his guilt. He earned this in Lizzie Prior's bed, and maybe if he heard this story from someone else he wouldn't even be on his side. Some guy cheats on some girl and she coldcocks him and walks out. Well, good for her.

He hurt her. He never meant to hurt her. This is all his fault.

He tells her so when she comes in, and she looks at him like her heart is breaking. She tells him she is sorry, and he believes her, and she tells him this will never happen again.

He trusts her.

* * *

The second time it is still his fault. It is also a relief. He has spent the past month not walking on eggshells, and he has told himself a hundred times he is not _waiting. _It will never happen again, she told him, and he's seen no sign she's holding herself back.

He stays out all night. To say he forgets to call her would be to say he forgets. And he does not. He never does.

But he does not call, and she worries, and he comes home and walks straight into her fist. Apologies fall from his mouth right along with the blood.

Deep in the pit of his stomach there is a feeling of relief and satisfaction. Okay. No more uncertainty. This is how things are, and he can work with this. He can _live_ with this.

He gives a small sad smile of acknowledgement to the rightness of things.

His voice is earnest as he tells her he is selfish, and she agrees, even if she doesn't understand all the reasons why. She says there will not be a next time. He thinks she even believes it, but he already knows the way this is going.

He trusts her still.

* * *

The morning is full of love and possibility. She is still unhappy; last night hangs over her like a thundercloud. He smiles and laughs and takes her to breakfast. He can be strong for her, and there is love in her eyes and he is not afraid. He has to show her it doesn't matter.

Debbie disagrees. "What happened?" she asks as they walk into the Standard, and her eyes are huge with horror.

Isabel stirs beside him, and he can read the anger in her footsteps. His heart is treacherous and skips a beat.

"Walked into a door at Walmart," he says with a laugh, and the lie trips off his tongue as easy as ever. The extra detail adds the ring of truth. He learned that early.

Isabel takes his hand, all anger gone. Lies are always safer. He learned that too.

* * *

The third time she says is because he left a wet towel on the bedroom floor again. He knows better. The case she'd been working on was going badly, and she came home angry - the towel is nothing more than the flashpoint.

He cannot look her in the eye as she lashes out. He does not recognise her. He trusts her, he tells himself. He trusts her.

Something cracks beneath her fists, and he is gasping, stumbling to his knees, his fingers curled in the carpet like he's searching for strength. His breathing is ragged. This hurts too much and, just for a moment, he is afraid she is not going to stop – he _trusts _her – but then she is looking down at him, her eyes frightened and ashamed. "Let me see," she commands softly. "Robert, let me see."

He cannot. She reaches out and he jerks away. It hurts too much. He is not in control and the urge to hide is too strong – he _cannot _let her see, and her eyes grow dark with anger.

Later, he lies on the floor and watches the blood drip from his hair and stain the carpet. The pain has overwhelmed him into numbness. She has locked herself in the bathroom and he can hear her crying and he longs to go to her, to hold her close and promise everything will be alright. Right now though he is afraid he will only make everything worse.

The phone in his hand is his guilty secret. Danny's number is already on the screen. All it will take is one call, and all of this will be over forever.

He doesn't call. And in the end, that makes all of this his fault, right?

He leaves the towel lying on the floor until the next day.

* * *

It is not as if he doesn't understand that this is wrong. She should not hit him, he knows that. But she does. Not every day, not even every week, but there is a fourth time, a fifth time, a sixthseventheighth time, until they reach a time when counting loses its charm. And he does not dodge or duck, and he does not tell her to stop, and he certainly does not hit her back. He accepts it as the way it is. The price he has to pay for her love. And once he's decided that, 'right' and 'wrong' are meaningless. It simply...is.

But yes, to answer the urgent Dannyquestion in his head, he understands that it's not his fault, but at the same time he knows that living with him is not easy. He is well aware of his faults. She tells him once that she has never acted like this before, and he is almost sure he believes her. He _wants _to believe her, even though it hurts. He drives her to this.

This is his first relationship to last more than six months. The first time he has lived with someone. In Europe he went so far to get her back. Risked more than himself. Did he really think this would be easy? He'd told her – told himself – that he was ready to work on making this work.

Tess had told him once that relationships involved compromise and sacrifice. He holds a wad of tissues to his bloody lip and stares at himself grimly in the mirror. He doubts this is what she had in mind, but the lesson still stands.

It's not as if pain and danger are anything new to him. He has grown up with them, lived his life with them, and he knows better than anyone what he can cope with, what he can take. A couple of punches do not spell the end of the world, no matter who is doing the punching. Quite simply, he doesn't mind so much as other people would. This is...acceptable. After all, his _job _carries a high risk of being hurt or beaten or worse, and no one has a problem with that. This...this is not any different.

He ignores the look he can picture in Danny's eyes at the thought, and the protests he can already hear. This is not any different. Really.

And she is always sorry. That has to count for something, right? Each time, when it's over, when she's finished, she tells him she is sorry and she means it, and she holds him and kisses him, and tries to make everything better.

Sometimes, he thinks, she almost hates herself for what she does to him. Like one time when he's lying slumped on the floor, as she holds an ice pack against his face, her other hand wrapped in his, like she can't bear to let go.

His head is throbbing and there is an annoying ringing in his left ear. His vision is just a bit blurry, but he doesn't want to tell her that. He is staring down at the growing bruise on his chest with rapt fascination. "'s shaped like Denmark," he tells her dizzily.

Her grip on his wrist tightens fiercely. He does not wince. "Shut _up,_" she says, in a low hateful voice.

He wants a Danish.

"Make me leave," she says softly, and now she's looking directly at him, almost pleading. "Please."

He looks up slowly, and the hurt, the desperation in her voice...he can only tell the truth. "But I want you to stay," he says, and for one second there is another answer hovering on his tongue. _Stay. Stay, and don't hurt me anymore._ _Please. _He is angry with himself; he does not beg.

He thinks everything would be better right now, if he only had a Danish.

But she really is sorry, and he thinks that at first she really does think all this can just stop. She doesn't see him as her victim.

In the end, he trusts her. He trusts her not to go too far.

So many justifications. So many reasons to cover the fact that he could walk out whenever he likes, and he chooses not to. But in the end, it all comes down to one simple fact; he loves her.

He loves the way she smiles at him, he loves the way she laughs, and the way her eyes sparkle with bright mischief. He loves the way she guiltily watches the daytime soaps, and claims every time that she was watching the news and just couldn't find the remote to turn off the TV. He loves the way that when it's just the two of them she'll slip into Italian, or French, or Spanish without even noticing, because she _trusts _him, and she is relaxed. He loves the way she cheats at cards, and the way she eats popcorn, and the way she creeps over onto his side of the bed when it's cold, until she's draped over him like an extra blanket. He loves the way she watches him when she thinks he isn't looking. He loves her warmth and her humour and her endless, boundless determination. He loves _her. _All of her. Yes, she hits him, but what does it matter next to all of that? How can the two possibly compare?

This is his choice.

* * *

Once, he almost explains it all to Danny. By chance, Tess and Isabel are both out of town, and he is visiting, and there has been whisky and movies and ice cream, and they're sitting on the sofa together. He feels lightheaded and lighthearted.

Danny has been sneaking glances at him all day. Troubled. Unsettled. There have been phone calls before this, times when Danny has suggested he thinks something might be wrong, but now they are together and Danny _looks _at him, and Rusty feels laid bare.

Guiltily, he thinks of the tiny, not-even-worth-mentioning cut on his hip, and the two bruises just below his chest that are so close to healed no one could really see them unless they knew to look. He has nothing to worry about, unless Danny decides on a strip search.

He hates hiding things from Danny, though. It always feels like he is in the wrong. He _knows _how Danny will react to this, knows that Danny will be angry beyond words, but maybe, if he can get Danny to calm down and look past emotion, maybe he can explain to Danny, let Danny see that she's still worth it, that even if this isn't...conventional...he still loves her.

It is his turn to steal a glance at Danny. No. No, he does not think Danny will be persuaded. Oh, Danny will listen, and Danny will understand, but in the end Danny will say that she _hurts _him, and that will be all that matters.

And if he does confess, sooner than later he will have to choose. Sometimes he is afraid he already has. After all, from a certain point of view, what he's doing here is protecting her from Danny's anger, and that's because she's hurting what Danny loves.

"Everything okay?" Danny asks, not looking away from the TV.

He shrugs. "Sure," he says easily.

Danny looks round and gazes at him intently. "Rus'. Is everything okay?" It is a different intonation. A different question.

He takes care before answering. "Yes," he says softly. "I'm happy."

It is true. Ninety nine percent of the time, it is true. He might be a perfectionist, but he's not so stupid to think that any relationship can be perfect all the time.

Danny smiles. "Good," he says simply. "I'm glad." His eyes are soft with love and warmth.

For some reason, that right there is the moment he comes closest to telling Danny everything.

* * *

Saul drops by unexpectedly, less than two weeks after he visits Danny. He suspects that Danny has said something to get him worried, though he really doesn't know what.

Sitting down to dinner with Saul and Isabel together is a peculiar sort of agony. The bruise around his eye is fresh and dark, and his lip still stings if he smiles. He smiles regardless, and keeps the conversation flowing, and pretends he doesn't see how they're watching him.

Saul doesn't say anything till late into the night. Then he looks Rusty straight in the eye and asks "What happened?"

He grins. "I never did learn to keep my mouth shut. You know that."

Next to him, she grows tense. Without looking, he cannot tell if it's anger or guilt, but then, he knows it doesn't make much difference anyway. The result is always the same.

It isn't as if Saul is expecting a complete and comprehensive answer anyway. They've known each other far too long for that. But he nods and looks at Rusty more closely. "Is it going to happen again?"

_Yes. _A thousand times, yes. Beyond all doubt. But Saul can't know that, and he can't lie to Saul.

"_No,_" Isabel says fiercely, before Rusty has even managed to form a thought.

Saul turns and smiles at her with warm approval and for a moment Rusty thinks...

Just for a moment. Then he realises that Saul assumes that she is promising to take care of him. To protect him and keep him safe. He keeps his mouth shut. Stupidly, the night still stings like betrayal. Anyone would think he wants to get caught.

* * *

He doesn't want to get caught. Oh, not because he is ashamed, or because he thinks this is his fault (_they have already covered this, Danny,_) but at the least, there is no advantage to being seen as the victim. He hates being stared at, and he hates pity even more. Besides, whatever anyone says, there is still a stigma attached to this. Any man who admits his girlfriend beats him up had better expect a certain amount of whispers and laughter, and that's the best scenario. He has experience of that, when they argue in the mall one time and she turns round and punches him. It is the first time she has ever hit him in public, and it is a shock. Seconds later, mall security are there and they are standing between them, looking at her sympathetically and glaring at him suspiciously.

"Is everything alright, ma'am?" they ask her. "Is this man bothering you? Do you need us to call the police?"

She _is _the police. He has his hand pressed against his cheek, trying to contain the pain. There is no doubt in their minds that he is to blame, and Isabel's eyes show a mixture of guilt and vindication.

And he wouldn't expect that from the people who matter, he doesn't think, but even they won't understand. He amuses himself for a moment picturing Linus' face at the news. All confusion and hesitation and discomfort, and trying to be politically correct at the same time as he's trying to figure out if he's being played, somehow. He has no doubt that the kid would never look at him the same way again. None of them would. No, it's better to hide.

Practicalities. So much simpler to deal with than emotion.

He buys more long sleeved shirts and takes to wearing sunglasses all the time. That is easy, no great sacrifice. But even then, anyone who sees him regularly is bound to notice _something, _and with regret, he starts running his hotel over the phone and by email, seeing his managers once a month at most. He doesn't like it. Oh, he trusts his staff, but he has had fun making the place the way he wants it, and to give it up is...frustrating. He settles on the word, ignoring several others that spring to mind. He does resent her for that, he has to admit, but he reminds himself that she never asked him to. This all came from him, and maybe if he could just take more care about when he pisses her off, he wouldn't have to give it up.

His _other _work is slightly more difficult to manage. It's not that she doesn't approve, exactly, but while he's working, she tends to be more...volatile. Sometimes it doesn't seem as if she's even trying to stop herself, and that hurts more than the pain. He thinks maybe it is because he was working when he cheated on her, but maybe it's simply that he gets distracted and obsessive when he's working, and he doesn't pay as much attention to her as he should. Or maybe it is just that it reminds her of her parents. He doesn't _know. _He just knows that he has to be careful, and he has to be ready to change his plans at a moment's notice. And that means he cannot work with other people too often, which is probably a good thing – it's the same problem as with his hotel staff, after all. But little by little, he is becoming isolated. The worst part might be he doesn't think she's doing it deliberately.

He has rearranged his life to suit her anger. And she still hurts him.

* * *

Sometimes he wonders what she thinks of when she hits him. It is an anger he truly does not understand. Oh, there have been times in his life when he has been driven half out of his mind by fury and the need for revenge or retaliation...but this is not that.

She breaks his wrist once, over spilled milk. She doesn't mean to, he knows, and it breaks along old fracture lines – someone else has hurt him there before, and the second time he cracks oh, so much easier. She does not leave him in the ER, and she holds his good hand and never says a word as the doctor glares at him disapprovingly, taking note of older bruising, and talks of his need to stay out of fights. He wishes he could have called Stan. But Isabel takes good care of him for the rest of the night, and they make love for what seems like hours. He feels almost whole.

Still, he doesn't understand how something so petty can make her so angry. He would have cleaned the milk up once he'd finished his cereal. What made it more important than him, even for that moment?

He doesn't ask her. She doesn't want to talk about it, and truthfully, neither does he. They are so happy for so much of the time that discussing it seems foolish. He is afraid that if they talk about it, somehow it will poison everything good in their relationship.

And it is good, make no mistake about that. Her outbursts of anger are few and far between. The rest of the time, they smile and laugh and live and love, and they are together. She does not call him names, or demean him, or make him feel stupid, or any of the things he would look at and call abuse. Her anger is straightforward and direct.

Only sometimes, when she's angry, when she hits him, it's like she doesn't really see _him. _Those are the times when she's angry at something else, and he is just...there. The punches rain down without mercy or meaning, and the anger in her eyes is cold and impersonal. It makes him feel like a piece of meat. Afterwards, when she tries to kiss him, he pulls away. At least that means the anger is his by right, and the blows might not hurt any less, but he feels cleaner.

She gets jealous, and that is something he can understand. He has cheated on her before, and she only has his word that it will not happen again. He tries to show her she has nothing to worry about, he tries to show her how very much he loves her, and they go to Tahiti and Switzerland, and she is the only one he has eyes for, and she can _see _that, and life is good.

Somehow, it isn't good enough. (_Somehow_, he _isn't good enough_.) There are times when he is just talking to someone – anyone. Anything from an innocent conversation with a sales clerk to a dirty joke to make Linus blush – and she gets this look in her eyes. When they get home, she leaps on him like she has something to prove. The sex is amazing, he cannot deny that, and he responds to her as passionately and as urgently as he ever would, but it feels like she is trying to lay claim to him in a way she quite simply doesn't have to. He thinks he should feel flattered by the attention and the fierce light of desire in her eyes, and he cannot explain why he is not. He is not passive, never that, but he does let her take the lead, hoping that if she can somehow get this out of her system, things will get better for them.

And then he comes home from the Florentine job, still smiling from the joy of it all, and the spontaneous Charlie's Ticket he and Danny ran at the airport in response to the shrill woman in the loud shoes who'd been shouting at the wrong check in clerk. He is happy.

She is on top of him practically before the door closes behind him. "Did you let Ocean fuck you?"

He sighs. It has been a good five weeks. He has taken on men with guns and knives and anger management issues, and he has felt _safe. _"Can we not do this?" he asks. "I was having a really good day."

It is the wrong thing to say. He knows that before the words have left his lips.

There is some time missing from his mind, when he next opens his eyes. There is a sharp ache in his jaw, and he probes at his tooth with his tongue, a little afraid it is chipped this time. She is sitting against the wall, hunched up and watching him.

"I've never had sex with Danny," he says. He shouldn't have to say it. Not to her.

"I know," she says in a small voice. "I'm sorry."

He closes his eyes. It's funny. He can accept the beating so much easier than the accusation. _Did you let Ocean fuck you? _Like he's a possession to be fought over. Something to be owned and fucked and set aside.

But he can hear in her voice that she really is sorry, and he has left her alone for all these weeks while he worked, and he knows that she has been lonely. In the end, he nods.

Her eyes are bright with sorrow and relief, and love above all, and she comes over and kisses him, and they have sex right there on the floor, and it feels like they are trying to chase the demons away. He is still lying in his own blood. He hides the pain deep in his mind where she will not see it.

* * *

Something changes then, and he cannot say exactly what it is. Something in him. He still loves her, she still makes him happy, but it feels like he can no longer make himself happy. He is always tired these days, and the dark bruises around his eyes are there whether she has been angry or not.

"Keep it off the face," he tells her the night before Frank, Linus and the twins are coming to town. "Keep it where I can hide it."

It is not until later, when he is trying to wrap his ribs in some way that will let him move without pain, that he considers he could have asked her not to hit him at all, just for tonight. It is not until later that he considers that maybe she could have stopped whether he asked her or not. Why is it his responsibility to keep their problems hidden?

In the end, he calls and cancels, saying he has had to go out of town unexpectedly. In the course of a two minute phone call, Frank asks if he is okay three times. He forces the smile into his voice, and when the call is done, he lets the phone fall to the ground. It is suddenly too heavy, and he is too weary.

Isabel is watching him from the doorway. She doesn't say a word. He spends the weekend in bed, and she brings him hot chocolate, and peanut butter jelly sandwiches, and she lies next to him, her arms around him as they watch old Disney movies, and it all ends with happy ever after. There is a weight on his chest and it's killing him. He buries his face in her hair and wishes she will protect him.

* * *

He has to leave for a few days. Basher has a safety deposit box that needs moving. It is an easy thing, only takes the two of them a few hours, plus half a day's prep time.

He stays with Basher afterwards, for a night of drinking and movies. He takes his jacket off as he walks through the door and starts to casually drop it over the chair before he catches himself and hangs it up properly. When he turns round, Basher is laughing.

"What?" he asks, ready to grin at the joke.

"Never thought I'd see you being so _tidy, _mate," Basher says cheerfully. "Guess Isabel's really got you beaten into shape."

The grin freezes. He stares at the jacket for a moment. He has changed. He knows he has changed. But this is a _good _change, right? Picking up after himself more...that's something anyone would want him to do. Hell, he should be able to do that without it being...beaten into him.

He drinks the whisky Basher offers him so fast he doesn't even taste it.

* * *

He hesitates on the doorstep when he gets in. He does that every time three days. Just stands there for a few seconds, keys in hand, taking a deep breath like he has to convince himself that it is safe to go inside. And that's crazy. This is his home. If he feels safe anywhere it should be here.

Of course he understands why he doesn't. It isn't exactly rocket science, after all. He is afraid because she hurts him...it's just that he doesn't want to be. He promised that he could be strong. He promised that he wouldn't let it matter, that he understood that the love was so much more important than anything else. And now he's struggling to keep those promises, and even if it was himself he made them to, he still knows he is letting her down.

This time she greets him warmly as she walks in.

"You're back," she smiles. "How was it?"

"Fine," he says, walking over and kissing her. "Basher's all set."

"Good." She reaches up and strokes his face and tension flashes through him for a second before he relaxes. It's fine. This is going to be a good night.

She notices his reaction and her eyes are full of hurt. Even as he is offering the silent apology, some part of him is scanning her expression carefully, searching for any sign that hurt is going to turn to anger.

"I thought we could order Chinese tonight," she suggests brightly, and he can hear the love and patience and gentle support beneath her words. "Then we can maybe head to bed and see what happens."

He grins slowly. "Sounds good."

It is going to be a good night.

There are many good nights still. She has noticed the changes – how could she not? - and he thinks she thinks he is traumatised in some way. She takes care with him, but she doesn't treat him like glass, and the only thing that makes it different from...the only thing that makes it different is that she doesn't ask if he wants to talk about it. And the fact that her patience is not unlimited, and when he is hurt and unhappy and she cannot help, she gets frustrated. Angry. He does not stop her. She does not stop.

It is getting worse, he acknowledges dully. What once was every few weeks is now most weeks, and one or two punches have become several. Sometimes when it's bad, he catches himself dizzily wondering what he has done to deserve this. That frightens him. Enough that one time, with blood pouring from the cut above his eye, he locks himself in the bathroom and calls Danny.

He doesn't know what he is going to say. Perhaps he just wants to check that he _doesn't _deserve this. But Danny's answerphone reminds him that Danny and Tess are on holiday in Florence, and by the time Danny returns the call, Isabel has iced his bruises, bought him breakfast, held him close and told him again that she didn't _mean _it, and he is able to truthfully tell Danny that calling him was just a mistake, nothing more.

He can hear in Danny's voice that Danny is unconvinced and he must talk very fast indeed to prevent Danny cutting short his vacation.

Isabel will not look at him as he puts the phone away.

* * *

Sometimes, he thinks there is something desperately wrong with him. He has always been hyper aware, always noticed all the details no one else ever seems to, but now it feels like it is overwhelming him. It is difficult to cut through the clutter in his head, and he is constantly on edge, wired in all the wrong ways, tensing at a threat that simply is not there.

Livingston notices in Atlantic City, while they are still watching the contractors work. He jumps at the sound of his own phone, and then fumbles and almost drops it while he is trying to read the message. When he looks up, Livingston is studying him with a frown, paying more attention than he was to the casino floor.

"Uh, Rusty? You seem kinda, uh...nervous." It is not a question. That does not mean he doesn't have to answer.

He picks up an empty can of Red Bull from the table and grins. The unaccustomed smile hurts his face. "Few too many of these," he explains.

Livingston looks unconvinced. "That's your second, isn't it?"

"Fifth," he lies quickly, and he turns his attention to the monitors before Livingston can say anything else. "Huh. Isn't that one of Benedict's guys?"

He is relieved when Livingston falls for the distraction. He does not want to explain anything. Shame has taken root in his stomach. He finds himself thinking longingly of home.

* * *

Back home and she isn't happy with him. Not with the time he's spent away, not with the company he's been keeping. "We need to talk," she says, and that never leads to anything good. He finds himself biting back on the sharp retorts and the snappy answers, and he tells himself that it is because he doesn't _want _to argue. He's trying to be mature and reasonable. Not to mention by the time she's finished, he is no longer absolutely certain that he hasn't done anything wrong. He has left her alone on her week off to spend time doing a favour for an ex-lover. Put like that and it makes him feel wrong and selfish and dirty, and the fact that nothing happened, and no one except her considered anything might happen does nothing to change that. He is beginning to think that maybe he should spend less time working and with his friends. He has always been the one that everyone calls, and obviously that was fine when he was single, but maybe that should change now. He wants to understand her point of view and he struggles to ignore the swell of loneliness and despair. The years stretch out in front of him, and he feels cold and tired.

This is nothing like the warm homecoming he had last week. When he stays in bed an extra hour the next day it is for very different reasons.

Isabel calls him around mid morning. She doesn't often call him from work, and he is on edge before she has said a word. "Danny just came by the office," she tells him in a loud whisper. He can hear the upset right down the phone.

He swallows hard. Danny and Isabel in the same room. The thought disturbs him, and he has to resist the urge to ask if she's alright. "What did he want?" he asks instead, his mind racing. It has been a couple of weeks since he talked to Danny, and he can't think of anything...

"He...he was worried about you," Isabel continues, and he hates the guilt and anguish in her voice. "He was talking about...do you remember when Saul came to visit and you were...hurt?" Her voice breaks slightly on the last word. "He was asking if I knew who did it, and if they could still be giving you problems."

Oh. He couldn't help the sigh of relief. So Danny didn't know the truth. But he did think Rusty was being hurt on a regular basis and that wasn't good. And he'd gone to Isabel to discuss it. His mouth is a thin line. "I'll talk to him," he promises, knowing that neither of them are going to enjoy the conversation.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, sounding on the very edge of tears. "Oh, Robert, I'm so, so sorry. I promise things will be better in the future. _I'll_ be better. I won't...I'll never..." She breaks off and he can hear her sobbing quietly.

His heart is breaking and he is indescribably angry with Danny. "Oh, Isabel," he says softly. "It's alright. It's always alright." He takes a deep breath. "Why don't you see if you can get away early, huh? We can go to the beach. Take some time to really relax."

"Okay," she says shakily. He longs to look after her.

It is barely five minutes from when he hangs up the phone to when he hears the knock on the door. He opens it slowly, not surprised to see Danny. The anger is still bright and cold.

For a second they say nothing. Danny is studying him carefully, and Rusty is glad there's nothing on his face right now. Nonetheless, they both know there's something badly wrong here.

"We need to talk" Danny begins casually. "Apparently Dominic's got Saul worried about Reuben. There's some casino arms race going on between Benedict and Bank, and Reuben's getting pressure to get involved."

He hadn't heard. There was a time when he heard all the news first. And Saul had called Danny, not him. "His pride getting the better of him?" he asks, momentarily diverted, because this doesn't sound like a good plan at all.

"Yeah," Danny nods, responding more to what he hasn't said than what he has. "I'm going to go down there to talk to him. Want to come with? I'm sure we'd be more persuasive together."

When weren't they? For a moment he was tempted, no matter how angry he was with Danny, because this was Reuben, and it was important, but he'd just got through realising he had to stop running off every five minutes. "Can't," he says tightly. "I've got plans."

"Oh, yeah? What sort of plans?" Danny presses immediately, his eyes fixed on Rusty's face.

He smiles coldly. "Well, you should know. You're the one keeping tabs on me, right?"

Danny sighs. "Rusty - "

" - you can't have thought she wouldn't tell me," he interrupts harshly.

There is a pause. Danny blinks at him. "Of course I knew she'd tell you," he says. "Why wouldn't she tell you? Hell, I would have told you, I just..." He takes a deep breath. "We're worried about you. Me, Isabel, Saul, Livingston...what's going on, Rus'?"

"Nothing," he snaps, feeling sick at the idea of all of them talking about him, and if Danny keeps on pushing, if Danny finds out the truth, then nothing will ever be the same again. And Danny has been going behind his back, checking up on him, and it hurts and he feels betrayed. "Get out," he says softly.

"What?" Danny asks, incredulously.

"Just go." His voice sounds harsh, even to him, and he turns away. He can't stand to look at Danny right now, and he doesn't know whose fault that is.

"Rusty..." He doesn't see Danny reach out towards him, and the hand on his arm makes him jump, his heartrate spiking. He flinches back away from the touch, looking round at Danny fearfully, his mouth suddenly dry.

For a long moment they just stare at each other. They both know he should not be afraid right now. No matter what is going on in his life, he has never been afraid of Danny before. There is an uncomprehending frown on Danny's face, like he is struggling to understand. "Rus'...?"

He swallows hard. "Look, Danny, just go, okay? You've been going around behind my back, upsetting Isabel...I don't know what's going on in your head, but whatever it is, I don't want any part of it."

"_Upsetting_ her?" Danny repeats slowly, the frown deepening. "I don't..."

He doesn't want Danny thinking about Isabel. And even more importantly, he needs to get Danny out of here before Isabel gets back, and somehow he is opening the door and glaring at Danny until he leaves, his eyes dark and troubled. With a sigh, Rusty leans back against the door, and he can imagine Danny doing the same on the other side. There is an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

They do go to the beach in the end, and they drink wine and watch the sunset and she is smiling and happy, guilt long forgotten. But it has been a stressful day, for both of them, and the traffic on the way back is bad, and he still cannot tell when clever lines aren't funny.

Just as an experiment, he whispers "Stop. Please."

He tells himself she does not hear him. It has been such a long time since he cried. He is afraid that this is all there is left.

* * *

It is raining on the day it all ends. He is soaked when he walks through the door. Cold, and miserable, and the pain makes him move like a man thirty years older, and it takes him a moment before he realises there is someone in the living room, watching him, waiting for him.

"We need to talk," the familiar voice says.

He closes his eyes.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading, please take a moment to review :)**


End file.
